


She was everything he'd never wanted

by Whilenotwriting



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 14:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8404558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whilenotwriting/pseuds/Whilenotwriting
Summary: Jack is thinking. That's all.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CollingwoodGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollingwoodGirl/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Not So Innocent Comment](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2370404) by [CollingwoodGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollingwoodGirl/pseuds/CollingwoodGirl). 



> Happy birthday, wonderful CollingwoodGirl!  
> You write the most beautiful fics and I can't even dream of doing anything like it. So, instead, I've stolen a line from you and taken it as my starting point. 
> 
> The line in question is "She's everything I never wanted" from "A Not So Innocent Comment." Again, I can't write like CollingwoodGirl. Not in style, not in content, she'd one of the great ones.
> 
> Thanks to TheHonorableMrsMcCarthy for beta'ing, correcting my English and making great suggestions for improvement and to Fire_Sign for talking me out of my panic this morning when I wanted to delete the whole thing...

He’d said so once, that she was everything he'd never wanted. If _she_ had thought of it, she would have remembered a comment made in jest; not untrue but born of that moment and the game between them.  It was not. He had known when he first saw her. What had taken time was to acknowledge that he wanted something _more_ than what he once _had_ wanted. Accepting that _he_ might have it, even longer.

If he were to make a list of what his younger self  had thought he valued (well, not that much younger, it wasn’t exactly decades since she’d entered Lydia Andrews bathroom and his life) so few of her qualities would be there. He’d never written one as a young man. Why would he? He’d already found the one he wanted. Looking back, of course there had been a list. Not on paper but still a list. He sometimes wrote it now, in his head, the nights he was awake and she was not.

 Looking over at her he saw that she was (as always) deeply asleep. He knew that if he got up there would be little space left for him when he returned. When she’d offered him a room of his own in her house he had been afraid of what it meant. Now he knew the bed there was made for a reason, and she was called Phryne Fisher. He never started the night there, but there were times when he woke up balancing on the edge of the bed and waking her was not an option.  There was nothing better than waking up beside her, but many things rivalled waking on the floor. Tonight he still had most of his side of the bed to himself. It would not last if he got up. Instead he started the list once again.

Beautiful.  The first times he’d made the list he had not included such superficial things as appearance. Now he did. The reason had nothing to do with what he’d wanted, but everything to do with how he felt about wanting it. It made him feel shallow, but dammit, it was his list of the _ideal_ woman after all. Phryne was not in conflict with everything on his list after all. Far from.

Dark hair. (Had he ever desired a blonde? He didn’t think so.)

Traditional. It took some brutal honesty to add that to the list. He was ashamed to admit it now, even to himself. But wasn’t traditional exactly what he’d wanted and what he’d sought out? _He_ was traditional. Most of the time. How should he have known that untraditional suited him so much better?

If his teenage self had made a list he was quite sure “a good cook” would have been on it. His forty something self knew he’d happily eat anything edible. Phryne managed that too, although for some reason he’d never imagined a butler would be part of the deal.

Before he knew what life would bring him “good mother” had been there too. Ironically, she was.

It was getting more crowded on his side of the bed. She was sleeping on her side, diagonally across the bed, her head and arms now very close. “You take up a lot of space for someone of your build, you know,” he told her. Expecting and receiving no response, except for her forehead now resting against his arm. He tried gently pushing her shoulder. She moved closer.

Rich had never been on his list. It still wasn’t. If anything, it was one of those more challenging things between them. He’d always expected to provide for his loved ones. That’s how he was raised. He’d never thought that would not be needed or even wanted. Gifts were … complicated. Difficult for him to give, even more so to receive. It was fortunate marriage was not an option, really.

Some things she simply exceeded. “Strong” and “independent” had always been qualities he sought. Even as a boy, those were the girls he noticed. Phryne Fisher just was more of it than he’d imagined possible. It made for interesting days, if nothing else.

Careful. It sounded awfully boring now. But he’d never _wished_ for rash and daring. He’d never dreamed of impulsive and brave and so often neglecting her own safety. He wouldn’t complain if she thought before she acted. He’d rejoice if she for once did not throw herself so enthusiastically into danger. He’d surely regain his faith in a higher power if she’d manage to adhere to speed limits. But she was who she was and that was what he wanted _now_.

There was no escaping anymore. His fingers slowly traced the line from her shoulder down to her hand. “Darling,” he tried, and squeezed her hand gently, “could you please move just a little? The floor is so cold and I’d be so very, very lonely.” “We’ll get a rug,” she said, not quite awake but moving just enough.


End file.
